The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [131]
Tran passed the pumps out—all kadre/one per. Dong smiled. Dong said, “You carry guns. That all right. Guns number-one A-OK.”
Tran smiled. Tran talked Viet. Dong talked Viet back. Marv Three translated—all pidgin-gook:
We get nice tour. We have lunch then. All A-OK.
Dong whistled. Dong gestured. Dong dispatched a Tojoette. He ran off. He hit the barracks. He ran back. He schlepped six M-1s.
Dong bowed. Dong issued guns—all Tojoettes/one per. Dong smiled. Dong talked Viet. Marv Three translated—all pidgin-gook:
Trust A-OK. Parity better. Lunch and peace accord.
Dong bowed. Tran bowed. Dong went you first. The kadre hiked out. The Tojoettes hiked close behind. Dong and Tran hiked back.
They cut through the dope fields—poppy stalks 4-ever—grids/rows/grid paths. Slaves raked soil. Slaves dropped seeds. Slaves trimmed stalks back.
They wore coolie hats. They wore shackles. They wore floral BVDs. They walked weird. They shuffled. Their shackles gouged bone.
It was good soil. It looked limestone sweet. It vibed low pH.
They hiked. The sun arced. The Tojoettes lagged behind. The Tojoettes breathed curry fumes. Wayne smelled it. Wayne gauged it—just ten feet back.
The Tojoettes had M-1s. The Tojoettes had bolt-throw rifles—one shot per throw. The Tojoettes had .38s. They were flap-holstered—slow-draw style.
Not here—not now—they won’t try.
Wayne looked sideways. Pete caught it. Pete winked. Wayne read, “Your call, kid.”
They had bullet-proof vests. They had better weapons. The Tojoettes had Nazi lids.
Wayne gulped air. Wayne stretched his vest tight. Wayne smelled fish stew.
There’s the lunch hut. It’s all bamboo. Four frond-and-stalk walls. Wide doorway opened up.
Wayne looked sideways. Wayne winked. Pete winked back. Wayne walked ahead. Wayne hit the hut. Wayne doorway-lounged.
The kadre caught up. Wayne bowed. Wayne went you first. The guys shook their heads. The guys aped gook manners. The guys went you first.
Wayne shook his head. Wayne bowed. Wayne went you first. The guys laughed. The guys shucked. The guys jived.
The Tojoettes caught up. The guys bowed. The guys went you first. The Tojoettes shrugged. The Tojoettes went fuck it. The Tojoettes walked straight in.
The guys blocked the door. The guys aimed. The guys jammed their backs point-blank.
Wayne shot his .45. Pete shot his pump. Bullets and bird pellets flew. The noise got four-walled—back shots/powder burns/muzzle roar.
Chuck shot. Marv Three shot—full magazines. Mesplède tripped. Mesplède shot. Rounds ricocheted.
Pete got dinged. Pete went down. Pete’s vest bullet-flared. Wayne got dinged. Wayne went down. Wayne’s vest popped and flamed.
Pete rolled. Wayne rolled. Dirt ate the vest flames. Recoil and reverb. Ricochets ricky-tick.
Wayne saw blood spatter. Wayne saw big stew pots. Wayne saw blood in fish stew.
He heard hog-fire—way off—Bob R. at three-o’clock high. He rolled. He pulled his vest off. He ditched his shirt.
There’s Dong.
He’s running. Tran’s chasing him. Tran’s got his hair. Tran’s got him down. Tran’s got a knife. Tran’s waving his head.
Wayne shut his eyes. Somebody jerked him. Somebody pulled him up hard.
He opened his eyes. Pete said, “You passed.”
63
(Saigon, 11/11/64)
Stanton said, “You fucked up.”
The Go-Go was dead. That bar-b-que’d monk deterred trade.
Pete lit a cigarette. “I didn’t feel like negotiating. Tran was up for it, so we ad-libbed.”
“ ‘Ad-lib’ doesn’t cut it. I went to Yale with Preston Chaffee’s father, and now he won’t be able to bury his son.”
Pete blew smoke rings. “Toast a monk and ship him in a body bag. He won’t know the difference.”
Stanton slapped the table. Stanton kicked a chair. It roused Bongo. It roused two whores.
They twirled their stools. They looked over. They looked back.
“A fuck-up is a fuck-up and money is money, and now I’m going to have to pay some Can Lao guys to go up to Laos to guard the fields you stole and replace the guards you kill—”
Pete slapped the table. Pete kicked a chair.